


No Wall

by gamefish



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Protests, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamefish/pseuds/gamefish
Summary: The Amis reunite after the disastrous 2016 election, but at least some things have changed for the better.





	

“Any word from Lamarque’s office?” Enjolras asked, not looking up from his laptop. 

“She’s meeting with the Islamic Council of Metro Chicago until 7:30, should be here by 8:15. The Facebook event of the protest has 1,248 attending, with 2,388 interested. There is a volunteer spreadsheet live for lawyers and translators to sign up for shifts through Thursday. We’re at 100% capacity for tomorrow, but only about 25% for Thursday. Everyone has eaten dinner except for you and Grantaire...Shocking.” Courfeyrac rattled off the report with a familiar ease and confidence Enjolras had missed. It was different working with people who knew what he was really asking, who didn’t mind if he was a little curt, and if he was being honest, who would make him eat. 

Working in Valjean, Javert & Associates had taught him a lot, and had given him fantastic health insurance, but it wasn’t the same as sitting in a crowded cafe with his friends, plotting to take down the man. Working to structurally fix the system was rewarding...but there were fewer hugs.

A hand appeared in front of his face, heading for his laptop, and the warm glow of nostalgia caught fire into a familiar annoyance. Luckily, at 29 he could rein it in in a way that he couldn’t at 22, which was for his own good as much as his friends. 

“The petition can wait, Enj. You can’t help anyone if you collapse. Combeferre is grabbing ‘Taire and then you two can grab some capitalistic chain food. I’ll even let you order as much coffee as you like.” Courfeyrac gently closed the laptop and linked an arm with Enjolras as he stood, in the manner of a friendly escort who will smile but turn on you the moment you try to run. 

It would be...good, to talk to Grantaire. They hadn’t seen much of each other in the last few years. Grantaire had been traveling, working on farms around the world and making more friends in 18 months than Enjolras had made in 18 years. Then the election season flooded everyone’s calendars in a deluge of door knocking and phone drives and “god please donate what will happen if we lose?” Grantaire had stayed away from the fray, claiming that the system was too broken to waste time on. Looking back, perhaps he had been right. The rules don’t matter if one side ignores them.

But now the election was over, and the months leading up to the inauguration had shaken up the Amis from where they had settled, and their familiar machine had sputtered back to life.

Grantaire and Jehan were sitting at a cluster of tables that had been pushed together, decorating posters with children whose parents had brought them to march. Combeferre was leaning over Grantaire to look at the poster where “All Are Welcome” had been outlined in red white and blue glitter. Enjolras noted his temper flare. Five years ago he might have chalked it up to something Grantaire had done, like wasting glitter by pouring it in Jehan’s hair. Now he was self-aware enough to figure out that his inner grump was more bothered by that hand on the back of R’s chair and the smile its owner was receiving. 

Grantaire stood up and aimed a smaller smile his way and Enjolras felt five years lift off his shoulders. God, he must be tired if he was willing to be this honest with himself.

“Evening, Apollo,” Grantaire said with a small bow. “I hear we’re being forcibly removed from the premises by our own people this time.” His face had about two days of 5 o’clock shadow but he stood up straight, as if he could go out and march for another six hours. He looked good. 

“Yes, the self-care brigade are at it again,” he replied. “What shall it be? McDonald’s or Starbucks?”

“Oh don’t make me choose! I suppose you’ll want the one who treats their workers better?” Grantaire asked, a hint of sarcasm overlain with the tone of smugness that comes with knowing a friend well enough to mock them. Knowing where to hit, and when to back off. 

“Here’s a ridiculous proposal--what if we leave the terminal? See what food lies beyond the walls of Terminal 5?” He had been switching between scones from Starbucks, McDonald’s fries, and a box of squished Poptarts that Marius had brought. Eating something green would probably be good…

“That is literally the most brilliant idea you’ve ever had. Better than the ABC, better than the water bottle project, better even than ‘Can’t build a wall, hands too small’ which really I should have come up with anyway.” R pulled out his phone, still bearing the familiar Captain America punching Hitler case. Enjolras rolled his eyes at the statement, but couldn’t help but smile at the mention of his chant. Grantaire was the best of the group at coming up with clever sayings for signs and marches. Then Musichetta, then Bahorel, then Joly, then five more people, then Enjolras. He was going to hold onto this one forever, even if it was more juvenile than his usual style. “There’s a Rick Bayless Mexican fusion doohicky in Terminal 3--want to give it a shot?” Grantaire looked at him expectantly. 

“Sure, sounds good. Lead the way,” Enjolras said as he followed him toward the tram. 

—

The tram was blessedly quiet. Most people were heading toward Terminal 5, not away. It was the first time he hadn’t been surrounded by the noise of a normal airport--with a layer of protest on top--in about 36 hours. Despite Joly’s protestations, he’d slept just a couple hours using his coat as a pillow, rather than go home and miss a detainee being released. 

They stood about a foot apart, holding onto the same pole. Enjolras had visions of the tram jerking to a stop and falling into Grantaire and--GOD he needed to sleep. Grantaire was looking out the window, where they could see a small stream of people leaving the parking lot to join the protest. This wasn’t college. The demonstration didn’t hinge on him being present, in control, up in front trying convert people with the sheer force of his passion. 

Abruptly the view cut off as they entered the tunnel toward the domestic terminals. All of the sudden he couldn’t find the energy to keep standing. He leaned onto the pole, an unsteady support beam, but the closest solid thing around. If things were different, he could lean on R but that could open a can of worms that he didn’t have time for. That he didn’t have the energy for. That would distract him from--screw it. It was time to start living his life, not putting it off til after the next deadline, the next campaign. It was time--

There was a bing. The doors slip open.

It was time to get off the tram.

Grantaire stepped out and confidently turned left. Enjolras followed, his familiarity with O’Hare beginning and ending with the arrivals waiting area of Terminal 5. 

—

The meal was fantastic. It may have just seemed average for someone who hadn’t been on a scone-fries-scone-fries-scone diet, but for he who had just rediscovered vegetables, it was a revelation. 

They talked about Grantaire’s work with winter farmers markets, and Enjolras’ epic tie disaster of 2015. It was pleasant. It felt normal. Could this become normal?

Their phones buzzed simultaneously, and Enjolras’ chimed the annoying bird tweet that signaled Courfeyrac was messaging him. He really needed to keep his phone on silent in public…

The text was in the Amis’ Whatsapp group and featured Courf clutching Enjolras’ laptop making a terrifying face. 

“You two are banned. Go sleep. We’ll hold down the fort here--unless you think Bousset and Bahorel can’t lawyer as well as you. Besides, Bahorel actually speaks Arabic. The Holiday Inn on Mannheim has a room waiting under Enj’s name. Rest up and be ready for the morning.”

“And yes the room was donated. Don’t start.”

“Also, bring me a bagel from the breakfast buffet. The full fat cream cheese. xoxo”

Enjolras tried to swallow his smile and failed. Normally he would bluster and protest at the unnecessary use of funds, that a real bed should go to someone like Joly, whose back needed the support. And then of course the blatant matchmaking, which would require some extra huff to cover up any potential smiles or blushing. But not tonight. Tonight he looked Grantaire in the eyes and asked “Shall we?”

Grantaire stood and gestured toward the doors. “After you, oh fearless leader.”

—

Though Enjolras was proud of the NYC taxis going on strike, he was thankful they were running in Chicago as he stepped out of the cab, into the welcoming fluorescent light of the Holiday Inn Express. He gave his name at the desk saying “Apparently I have a reservation?” Not his strongest delivery, but he was white and wearing a suit, and that was going to have to be enough. 

“Oh you must be the protestors!” the woman at the desk exclaimed. “Thank you so much for what you’re doing. I technically need a card for the room, but everything is on the house. There are also some overnight kits waiting--toothpaste, deodorant, the works.” 

Enjolras took a moment to process, and Grantaire stepped forward and handed her a credit card. “We’re just doing what we can. Living in a democracy is an every-day responsibility and all that.” Enjolras gripped the counter to steady himself. He’d spent a lot of time working for others, taking care of his friends. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end. And now Grantaire was speaking like a patriot. Maybe he should pinch himself…

“Come on Enj,” Grantaire grabbed his wrist and led him towards the elevators. 

“Thank you,” he called back to the woman at the desk, still not feeling quite awake. Grantaire hit the button for the 5th floor with the hand not attached to his wrist. At least one of them knew where they were going…Enjolras gestured with his hand, palm up, and Grantaire let go immediately, eyes worriedly looking to assess the damage. Instead, Enjolras reached out and and slid his fingers in between R’s. The nerves in Grantaire’s eyes seem to travel down one arm and up through his, darting around in his head making it difficult to think. In his gut though, this felt firm and solid and right. Perhaps overdue, but perhaps not. 

Grantaire led them left out of the elevator, finally stopping at room 532. He swiped the key over the lock and opened the door to reveal two beds, with two toiletry kits and terrycloth robes. 

“Robes! Look, Enj! Robes!” He let go of Enjolras’ hand to feel the soft fabric. “This is the fanciest I have ever felt!” he exclaimed. Enjolras smiled at him, feeling young for the first time in a long while.

—

They unpacked the tiny toothbrushes and tiny toothpastes from the kits and brushed their teeth next to each other. It wasn’t that Enjolras had daydreamed about that or anything, it was just to save time. Grantaire was wearing his robe over his clothes, looking like an adorable Gandalf. God he really needed to sleep. He finished brushing and headed back into the room for a moment of privacy. What was he doing? What should he wear? Were they sharing a bed? Did Grantaire sleep naked? God, what if Grantaire slept naked? The person in question--still clothed--stuck his head out the bathroom door. 

“Apollo I can hear you worrying from in here. I’m sleeping in my boxers and this robe, in the bed furthest from the window. You can join me if you want, robe or no robe, and then we will sleep at least ten hours.”

“Okay,” Enjolras responded, that steady feeling slowly returning. He kicked off his shoes and stripped down. He really didn’t want to sleep in something he’d been wearing since before yesterday, so he put on the robe. 

Of course, he was still fiddling with how much chest to expose when Grantaire exited the bathroom. That was just his luck. His dignity never seemed to stick around when Grantaire was within 100 feet of him.

“Phone.” Grantaire demanded, hand out, palm up, ready to be obeyed. He handed it over, not bothering to disguise his regret, and watched as Grantaire shut them both off. Off off. Not just silent off. Not just airplane mode to save the battery off. Actually off. Enjolras couldn’t remember the last time his phone wasn’t on and at his side. 

Grantaire put them both in the drawer of the bedside table, side by side, and crawled under the covers, throwing two of the pillows on his side over to the other bed. Throwing caution to the wind, Enjolras followed in right after him, not bothering to walk over to the other side. He wrapped an arm around Grantaire’s middle, lying on his side, and after a brief moment of indecision, laid his head down so that R’s bicep was supporting his neck. It was a really nice bicep. It looked good when he was painting, but his favorite was when R was holding up a protest sign, especially in the purple tank top. Oh god that purple tank top.

He felt his pillow shift slightly as Grantaire took one of his curls and wrapped it around his pinky. “Goodnight Enjolras,” he said, as he curved his neck to place a light kiss where his forehead met his hair. 

“Goodnight, R,” he replied, snuggling in, feeling the tension in his mind and his muscles sink down and flow away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) I needed some support after the news this weekend, and seeing those lawyers on the floors of airports around the country, I knew exactly who they were. Blanket permission, and cuddly blankets encouraged.


End file.
